


Signals

by Destina



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-10
Updated: 2010-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:51:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destina/pseuds/Destina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve knows how to read the signals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signals

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an insmallpackages holiday exchange prompt: _PWP - Pre-Hawaii 50 - McGarrett solo or OMC while he was in the SEALS._

Wetwork takes Steve and his team to Venezuela, near the Columbian border.

Somewhere between the edge of the wilderness and civilization, there's a local dive with four rickety tables put together from salvaged wood. Mismatched chairs, and in them, a hodge-podge of patrons, silent or speaking in low tones. These types of places are always the same, and attract the same kinds of clientele: men and women who don't want to be overheard, who are prepared to inflict consequences if that rule is violated.

Steve's tired when he arrives. Crosshairs swim in his vision like a permanent afterimage of the sun. His hand is still cramped from the hours he's had his finger on the trigger, holding tight for the millisecond of opportunity, the one chance in a billion to complete his mission.

The sun's been down for two hours, but the heat is unexpected and oppressive, clinging to his skin and hair. The smell of hard rain is an undercurrent in the wind.

He sits and kicks the other chair away; his spotter's back at base, fucking around with the secure phone to get a call in to his wife. A pretty girl comes over from behind a curtain and stands by his table without speaking. She flicks quick glances toward Steve's face, then away. 

" _Cerveza_ ," Steve says. Brand doesn't matter; he'll get what there is to get, because that's all there is. She moves away, and Steve takes a good look around. Two doors, one at the front, one at the back. Narrow windows without glass, only at the front. A bar of sorts, waist-high counter, one man counting change into a tumbler. Four other patrons -- one pair, two loners, all men.

The pair are European. They're speaking French, and they're dressed in open-collar shirts and expensive slacks. Contractors, maybe. Hard to say. There's always a need for construction materials and heavy equipment. The third man is a local, half asleep in his chair, a shot glass pinched loosely between two fingers.

The fourth man has a look about him Steve's seen a thousand times. Company man. No telling why he's here. Tracking drug traffickers, maybe; scoping out the cartels. Or maybe he's military, or ex -- it's hard to say. Thirties, built, five ten, short dirty blond crew cut. Green eyes that cut Steve's direction a few seconds, then flick away, filled with all the info he needs to threat-assess Steve.

Like knows like.

**

Steve's instructor at sniper training drilled three skills into him: marksmanship, observation, and stalking. How to shoot, Steve's known since he was a kid. How to stalk, he picked up in SEAL training.

Observation, that's just paying attention. It's the art of noticing what most don't bother to see.

**

Steve finishes his beer. That's first, before everything else. Time out of the field is rare and needs to be savored. He relishes the bitterness, the burn, as the beer goes down warm.

Around him, the room has grown still, many pairs of eyes on him, watching. He knows what he looks like to them. Outsider. Unfamiliar. A potential threat to everything they hope to gain here.

Except to the man nursing a shot of whiskey, his gaze moving between the bar girl, and Steve.

Steve drinks down the last of his beer in a long swallow and throws the cost on the table, then shoves back the chair. He heads outside, stands waiting by the door. It's just a matter of time.

His target comes out five minutes later and lights a cigarette, like Steve isn't there. Like he doesn't notice. Doesn't care. He turns and heads down the dirt road, his stride measured, an even pace. Military, Steve is sure now. He admires the view, the way he moves, and when there's sufficient distance between them, Steve sets out to follow him.

The path takes Steve into the village, past storefronts and empty buildings, deep into the side streets of what passes for a town here. He turns the corner, finds an open door and steps inside.

Hands, on his shoulders; he's slammed against the wall, and a strong arm presses against his neck, cutting off his air. There's no hostile intent behind it. Steve's been on the bad end of enough arm-bars to know. "Anything I should be worried about from you?" his host says in a low growl. His eyes are very green.

One corner of Steve's mouth quirks up in a smile, all the answer he plans to give. The next second the arm is gone and the man's mouth covers his, a slow, deep kiss, all intentions telegraphed in the way this man's tongue touches his, then retreats.

Steve's an expert, and he knows how to read the signals.

*

It takes Steve seven days to make his first confirmed kill. He's on his belly in the mud, Jake beside him, ready to measure distance and wind speed and any of the other technical aspects require to land the shot with precision. Sometimes Steve dozes, sometimes he shifts position, but mostly he juggles boredom with the need to stretch or piss.

Every so often, he takes a second to wonder how he ended up there - how his life became narrowed to this moment, his sole purpose to end a life.

Through the scope, he watches the camp, learns the intimate details of Iriq Nadal's life. When he eats, when he fucks, when he takes a shit - everything Steve ever could need to know about the timetable of Nadal's world.

It strikes him that he knows more about Nadal in some ways than anyone in the world does, or ever will again. But the things Steve knows are only superficial patterns, the top line on the grid. Everything that makes Nadal a unique human being is hidden from him, concealed where even the most intense surveillance can't find it. It's an irony Steve's thinking about at the moment his finger tightens on the trigger. 

*

The small house smells of rotted wood and mildew, but Steve is distracted by the warm mouth on his cock, the hand cupping his balls. He tips his head back and groans as a gentle tongue laps the base of his cock, then swipes up the underside, slow and full of intention. Steve's hips buck, bringing his body off the wall, and this stranger presses an open palm against his belly, pushing him back.

Soft suction, driving him crazy. Steve tries to breathe, to separate himself from his body, but he's grounded here in the heavy pleasure, the way he can't get enough air to compensate. He runs his fingers through the soft dark hair of this stranger, this man whose fingertips are pressing into his skin, as if they can leave their imprints there forever.

Impermanent, temporary. That's the nature of their business, but Steve doesn't make him move his hand. He pushes his hips forward, and the stranger moans softly, opening for him.

**

There's a certain detachment that goes along with pinning a target. Steve's aware of every detail: the draw of humid breath into his lungs right before the shot; the way his spotter bites his lip and draws blood; the give of the trigger underneath his index finger, so smooth.

Blood spatters in a forward pattern, bright and dark, wide and narrow. Steve closes his eyes. The aftermath is above his pay grade.

*

Steve clutches at the raw wood. Head down, eyes closed, panting for breath. An arm around his waist holds him still and keeps him from giving in to the lure of gravity.

"Jesus," comes the voice behind him, and then closer to his ear, "so fucking tight," and Steve bucks back against it, provokes a growl and a shove. Steve presses his fingers into the wall and tries to pull in enough air, but there's a strong hand on his cock, moving fast and dragging him away from denial and into bliss. He gasps, and then he's coming, head dropped back against a broad shoulder, mouth open, all the camouflage of his life stripped away in an instant of ecstasy.

"Don't try to hide it," the voice rasps in his ear. "Show me what you are."

The echo of those words is loud in Steve's mind; he bends forward and curls in, unsure. Tremors of pleasure rack his body.

His fingertips curl against the wall, desperate for something solid to cling to.

*

There are a few things Steve McGarrett knows, things that live in his blood. Patriotism, as sure as sunrise in the morning. Duty and loyalty, because he knows what's right, and what's worth fighting for. Where the boundaries are; these are lines he's drawn over time, shaded in with his own blood and tears.

Sometimes, he takes a hard look at the world he lives in, and he sees only the outline of the forbidden places, paths he can't travel. He's comfortable in the dark. It's easier to see the flashes of light there, the distant messages from home. 

*

When he comes, Steve swallows the noise, accustomed to keeping low and silent. The man behind him sighs and says, "No, let me hear you," and Steve lets a sound escape, one of quiet need and desperation.

"Yeah," his partner says, "yeah," and comes inside him, biting gently at the slope of his shoulder blade, the tense sharp curve of bone.

Steve looks up at the broken ceiling. The world around him seems very small, narrowed to the walls surrounding him. 

*

There are cues Steve is conditioned to notice, patterns he absorbs through his skin, even when he's cold or wounded or half-dead of dehydration and exhaustion. The temperature as it falls, or the prevailing winds. The scent of blood in the air, or the strange music of rain as it drums a beat on the ceiling of his tent. 

He's always searching for signals, for the secrets they carry. He spends his days now biding his time, waiting for the next one to come.

Looking for the one he's waiting for.

end


End file.
